


26th Avenue

by XOs



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adult Life, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Apartment, F/M, Human AU, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Normal Life, Responsibilities, Slice of Life, So Many Responsibilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XOs/pseuds/XOs
Summary: Michelle Mancham has decided to give "adult life" a try by moving into her own apartment without the support of her parents. When she arrives at a run-down, intimidatingly gloomy building, she fears she might go running back to the home comforts of her childhood. However, 403, 26th Avenue offers a colourful cast of characters; lifelong friends, and some very attractive strangers...





	26th Avenue

**Author's Note:**

> Seychelles is a lovely bab; please protect her. She really doesn't deserve the level of hate she receives ;o;
> 
> For anyone who cares, I'd say 403, 26th Avenue is heavily based on my own experiences when I moved into my first student house. It was a really grimy place with a landlord who would've got our parents to deep clean the house if one of us had been murdered there- really crummy people.

* * *

**There was paint peeling on the walls and the faintest stains of something unknown on the carpet.** I had to admit, there had definitely been an attempt to scrub it away, since the fabric on that particularly patch was worn down and faded. A valiant, but futile attempt. The lights had a yellowish hue to them and one of them was threatening to blow, flickering insistently in the corner. Another had dulled out entirely, having given up a long time ago. The windows rattled with each gust of wind and traffic was audible from the outdoors. Whoever had built the place had clearly decided it wasn't worth double glazed windows. The only person working at the desk was an unfriendly Italian man who had already told Dad to sit and wait, or get out. Those weren't his  _actual_ words, enough said. That was where we currently were; seated on a cheap leather sofa that was cracked and stained. A sad little coffee table with tea marks and an overflowing ashtray shivered before us with a magazine abandoned on it, a month-old rag with a topless woman displayed on the front. It looked like an incredibly unsatisfying and inexpensive place, so it only made sense that Mum had immediately disapproved of the setting.

She was sitting beside me, hands curled protectively over the purse she held tightly in her lap. For the special occasion of me moving into my own flat for the first time, she had put on a nice dress and heels. Mum always wore heels. She was a very small woman, so the added height made her feel more powerful and confident. Golden, shining earrings hung from her ears and her hair was styled into a pretentious up-do, just as always. Her dark red lips were pulled down into the tightest of frowns and a perpetual look of displeasure marked her features. This was something we'd argued about already, though, so any more efforts to change her mind about this decision would be exhausted. Dad had preferred to remain out of the conversation. His eyes were glued to his phone, the latest version of the greatest brand, Rolex watch gleaming at his wrist. The two people sitting beside me really made me question just how I'd managed landing the kind of place I had.

"Oi, bastard."

All three of us raised our heads to attention, seeing the Italian man waving a key around. If there was an award for being the least enthusiastic employee, he was probably going to get it. If he didn't, then the rest of the staff really needed to rethink their career choices. Was it possible to view this man as brave for being so openly brazen to his customers? Tutting, Mum rose and began marching across the lobby, heels clicking, with Dad following her disinterestedly. I was the last Mancham to reach the desk.

"Here's the key," the receptionist slapped it down on the desk in front of us. "Room 1, eighth floor. The lift's broken, so-" he sniggered. "-have fun."

"Isn't someone going to carry our bags?" Dad looked up from his phone. "Never mind."

Following his gaze, I saw the disgruntled disbelief on the Italian's face. There really wasn't any point in questioning this individual. Carry the guest's bags? That far exceeded the expectations of his job and, even if these were my bags he was refusing to carry, or organise having carried, I still had to admire him for it. He really and truly didn't care about our wellbeing or benefit. We could be damned for all he cared. There wasn't even a fear for his career, because he already knew that his boss wouldn't care about complaints. The state of the lobby already said that.

"We'll make a few trips," I beamed at Dad. "It won't take us long."

Mum swiped the key from the desk with a sharp scrape and fanned herself with her hand. "I'll be waiting in the room, if I make the climb up the stairs. You know, my legs aren't nearly as good as they used to be."

"We'll be a moment," I tried not to grit my teeth.

"I really want to see this apartment of yours, Michelle," Dad began drifting after MUm. "You don't mind starting the bags and me joining you after the first lot."

"Of course not," once more, I tried not to grind my pearly whites together.

Both parents fled the scene, heading for the door with an exit sign above that had long gone out and a plastic plaque nailed to the wall that read 'Stairs' in a basic black font on a white background. Sometimes, they were incredibly difficult to believe. Mum and Dad lived the type of life where hotel staff carried the bags to your room and, if the lift wasn't working, a technician would come later that day to fix it. I suspected this life in question hadn't functioned in quite a few decades. I couldn't blame Mum and Dad for not wanting to lug heavy bags up eight flights of stairs, but it was still cruel of them to leave the entire task up to me. No matter what he said, I knew Dad would stall joining me for as long as possible. He would suddenly feel the need to check the views from the other floors...

"Damn it," the receptions pushed away from his chair and strolled around the desk. "Where's the car?"

I stared at him blankly. I knew this place was dodgy, but I hadn't guessed he'd be so open about stealing our vehicle.

"I haven't got all day," he stressed awkwardly. "Is it red? Blue? Silver?"

It suddenly clicked. "Oh, you don't have to help. It's really OK."

"I'm not going to leave a  _bella_ like yourself to life heavy luggage up several flights of stairs," he scoffed. "Which is your car?"

"Thanks," I said gratefully and he flushed. "It's a black Mercedes piled high with bags in the backseat and boot."

"I never paged a Mercedes to be a mass travelling kind of car," he said drily. "Lead the way."

"Honestly, I really don't mind doing this alone," I began walking to the exit and he followed. "If you're busy, I wouldn't want to interrupt whatever you were working on."

"I was doing nothing," he replied. "I do nothing every day. That good enough for you?"

"I'm sure you do more than ' _nothing_ '," I stressed at his bad attitude. "Otherwise you wouldn't be getting paid."

"I keep the drug dealers and the gangs out," he rolled his eyes as we cam to a stop beside the car. "I can't believe your dad doesn't lock that in a place like this."

"He's quite blasé when it comes to money," I admitted, opening the back door. "Besides, it's his policy to assume there's security cameras outside any hotel or hostel. Is there?"

"One, and it's by the gate," he said and I was remotely impressed that there was some form of defence in the first place. "But it ran out of battery two years ago and nobody's been bothered to bring it up in a staff meeting."

"It's there for principle," I unloaded the first suitcase, which he drew closer to himself.

"I don't get it," he remarked, balancing a soft bag across his shoulder. "If your parents drive a Merc and wear all those fancy clothes and stuff, why aren't you living somewhere more upmarket?"

"I finished uni about three years back, so I finally decided to get my own place," I explained, bringing out a third bag.

"That's doesn't explain why you're in this shithole," he said.

"Oh, well, I wanted something affordable that I could get on the low wages I was paid working as a barista," I closed the car door. "I didn't really consult my parents about it, looked up a few flats that were in the city that I could upkeep rent for and found this one!"

"You  _really_ couldn't have found somewhere better?" he fell into step beside me, his gaze almost accusative as we reached the front doors once more.

"I looked around here and there, but this place really called for me," I said. "It had a vibe."

"You looked around a few places and  _then_ decided on this one?" he looked impressed. "The other places  _must've_ been bad. I  _work_ here and I wouldn't live here if someone offered me a million dollars."

He paused, losing himself to thought.

"Scratch that," he said. "I'd get my million and then leave as soon as possible."

"I believe it's important to give every place a try before bashing it," I smiled. "This was the only place I looked around. The others just didn't have that...  _feel_ to them and when I came to look around here, I just knew it was the one for me."

"I can't believe there's actually a human on this planet who  _likes_ this shithole," he blinked, amazed, as we began our ascent up the stars.

"I'm sure there's much worse places on the planet than here," I looked up at him, hauling the suitcase behind me. "The flats are a nice size and the view is also good. It's nice to be on the top floor, because then you don't have the risk of noisy neighbours living above you."

"But the walk," he grimaced.

"I don't mind it," I shrugged. "A little bit of exercise isn't going to kill me."

"You're a very positive chick, you know that, right?" he arched an eyebrow.

"Looking on the bright side has never done me any harm," I smiled.

Conversation dipped out after that. It was too tiring to talk and travel upstairs. Concentrating on the task at hand, we tried not to trip on each step and the muscles in my arms were burning with the strain by the time we reached the fourth floor. The stairwell had the distinctly unpleasant smell of urine permeating the air and its lack of windows made it very dark when a light above a door was broken. Still, we pressed on, higher and higher until the stairs above only led to the roof. The receptionist pushed open the door into the hallway, grunting as he also strained against my bags.

We stood in a dim corridor. The carpets were exactly the same as the carpets in the lobby, brown and dirtied. The walls were grubby and covered in dark marks and scrapes. Most of the bar lights weren't working and one of them had even been smashed. All doors were firmly shut and there didn't seem to be any signs of anyone greeting or helping us. It was also freezing, so something told me the heating at the top of the building had also ceased to function. That  _might've_ been a problem, given that I was used to being warm and hated the cold. Shouldering open the door of the first room, the receptionist led me into the small flat I looked at so many months ago.

The lounge and kitchen were connected, with counters and cupboards huddled to one side of the room and space for three or four people near the TV, depending on how many people you could fit on the sofa. The carpet and tiles looked a little unpleasant and the room itself felt drafty and cold. Its' good side was the large window that overlooked the buildings, outlining the silhouette of the wondrous city I'd moved in to. A door leading, presumably, to the bedroom opened, with Mum storming out. She didn't look impressed, but one look at the receptionist told me she wasn't about to say anything in front of him- not that he'd have cared. She left the room coolly, Dad following hurriedly after her, nodding briefly in our general direction as he passed us.

"Looks like your parents are less inclined towards this place," the receptionist remarked, balancing my bags against the sofa.

"They're used to the finer things in life," I said awkwardly. "But it shouldn't be a problem. I don't expect them to visit a whole lot; in fact, I'd much rather be the guest."

"They might warm to it," he said. "Next round?"

I nodded and the pair of us spent the rest of the afternoon dragging ourselves up and down the stairs to finish bringing boxes and luggage up eight flights of stairs. Mum and Dad stayed out of the way, waiting in the lobby until the final bags were brought up. Only then did they trail after us, leaving a gaping hole for any potential conversation to drop in to. Clearly, their angry presence had convinced the Italian to clam up and I wasn't much in the mood for talking either, given Mum was glowering at the back of my head. One step after another, we finally made it to the top floor, where the receptionist bid me farewell and fled from the scene. The door clicked shut and Mum turned to me, fury in her eyes.

"I can't believe you've managed to end up in this backstreet dumpster," she gasped. "This is absolutely  _horrid_ , Michelle. The mattress is all lumpy and it's not even clean. It hasn't been prepared for living habitation at all. The only reason I'm letting you stay here for as long as you must is because you've signed a contract for an entire year; a  _whole year_."

"Veronique, there's nothing-"

"I'm not finished," Mum cut Dad off. "This isn't the kind of place I want any daughter of mine living. These  _people_ in their  _substandard_ conditions. That man at the desk couldn't even be bothered to communicate with us to begin with. It took a pretty young woman to jumpstart him. I don't want you associating with those kinds of people, Michelle."

"He was just helping me," I pointed out, but she raised her palm to my face.

"I don't want to imagine what kinds of lowlife are lurking behind the rest of the doors on this floor, but you must ensure that your flat has high security," she garbled.

"I won't need to install security against my flatmates," I assured her palm. "It's not like they're axe murderers or anything."

"You can't say that for sure at the moment," she looked aghast, lowering her hand. "Just you wait until you meet them, Michelle. I can't even think about it. I can't believe you've decided to pay for such a horrible little place, when Yoon and myself could've gotten you something far nicer and equally affordable."

"The deal was that it would be affordable for  _me_ ," I told her sternly. "As in,  _I_ pay for it."

"And that's why it's such a horrible place," she pulled a face. "I can't imagine how you could ever make these four walls  _remotely_ homely. This isn't the kind of institution where you can make a happy home."

"It's not like I'm going to live here for the rest of my life," I complained. "People  _move_ across the years. I just need to wait until I have a better job and I'm earning more. Or when I have a stable relationship."

"Yes, I think marrying a wealthy man may be a good idea for you at this rate," she said pointedly.

"That's  _not_ what I meant," I almost growled. "Why can't you just be happy for me? Most kids take liberties and don't move out until they're nearing thirty."

"But that's when they have a  _decent_ place to stay," Mum drilled. "You're probably paying far too much for what this place is worth."

"I'm fairly sure it comes out as much cheaper than my student house," I huffed. "I'm happy with it, so why can't you be?"

"You  _really_ want to live here?" she scoffed. "I can't believe this. We've raised you to appreciate much finer living standards and yet you lower yourself to such common living arrangements. I told you this is what university would do to her, Yoon."

" _Don't_ bring uni into this," I ran my hands through my hair. "I wanted to get a degree and that's what I did, but my life at uni has  _nothing_ to do with my current living situation."

"So you want to live like a poor student for the rest of your life?" she barked. "Minus the student discounts?"

"I want to live independently from my parents," I corrected her pointedly. "I don't want to be living off of the pair of your for the rest of my life."

"We really don't mind," Dad remarked. "We're here to make sure you're successful."

"Not helping," I muttered under my breath.

"Suit yourself, then," Mum raised her chin in defiance. "But you won't last a month. I should hope you won't come crawling back to us when you've had enough of this terrible place."

"That won't happen," I scowled.

"I'll be waiting in the car," Mum declared and stormed out of the room.

Dad turned to me as the door closed and heaved out a huge breath. "I don't like this place, either."

"I know you don't," I said moodily.

"But you want it and I want what you want," he offered me the key. "Your happiness is the most important thing to me,  _ma bichette_. If, for some bizarre reason, this place makes you happy, then you can have a spot in this place. But if you do need to come home, or if you even need a phone call, you know where we are."

"Is Mum angry at me?" I sighed, taking the small item from his hands.

"Disappointed," he replied and looked around the room. "And perhaps a little scared for you, too. She wants the best for you and this is far from it. I don't want to leave her waiting. As I said, if you need me, call me."

"Sure thing,  _Papa_ ," I hugged him and saw him to the door.

It was strangely hard to watch him leave. I couldn't help but hark back to the first day of university when, just eighteen years old, I had waved my parents away with tears in my eyes. This felt the same, except more... bitter.

"Well,  _that_ was a very heated argument," someone wandered into the hallway from the stairwell, thick eyebrows raising over green eyes.

"It wasn't an argument," I swallowed back my emotions and retreated into my room, refusing to let anyone else see me for the rest of the day.

It felt horrible to be in that cold room alone. With animated people moving around me, the desolate feel hadn't been present. Now it clung to every item of furniture that wasn't mind and the knowledge that I had to unpack in such a down mood only made me feel worse. The first thing I focused on was my bed. Draping it in sheets and a warm duvet was the best I could do for such a place and wrapping myself in said items was the best I could do for myself. I wanted to be happy here. So far, I wasn't.. Mum had left me in a sour mood. It was currently dark outside and it seemed there was no hope of getting accustomed to my surroundings, especially as my neighbours seemed to be equally as cold and unfeeling as the receptionist and the building itself.

In the darkness of my flat, it felt perfectly acceptable to shed a few tears and sob.

**Author's Note:**

> "Ma bichette": a French term of endearment for children. It translates to "my little doe".


End file.
